Gilt (8 page)

I eyed him suspiciously. "What about Michael?"

Dan's hand stilled on Grumble's head. The cat twisted underneath Dan's palm, obviously reminding him that 'hey, Mister. There's a cat here and he needs attention.' Dan resumed petting, but he kept his eyes on me.

"What about Michael?" I repeated.

"We can't involve her," Tinsley said in a cautionary tone of voice.

"Bullshit. She's already involved. Bennington is nervous." Dan rubbed under Grumble's chin, my blissful kitty obligingly angling his face for better access.

I snorted. "Michael? Nervous? About what?"

"You tell us," Dan snapped. "You're friends with him."

"Now wait a minute. Why is that a crime? Just because John told me that--" I stopped myself in time, almost blurting that a ghost accused Michael of murder.

Both men pinned me to my chair with their eagle-eyed stares. "What did your husband tell you?" Tinsley asked.

"I wonder if I need a lawyer," I said.

"Is Bennington your lawyer?" Dan asked.

"What if he is?" I met Dan's eyes, daring him to challenge me. "Is that a crime?"

"Maybe," Tinsley said softly.

I snapped my attention back to him. "You're accusing Paul and Michael of illegal activity. Why? Why should I believe you?" My dead husband's ghost had said the same thing and I was willing to believe him. Why didn't I believe these two live men sitting in my house? "You come into my home and start making accusations about people I've known for years."

Tinsley tugged an envelope from his pocket and pulled out three pictures. He arranged them carefully on the coffee table so three faces stared up at me.

One was John. It was his fire department picture, with him in his uniform, a faint smile on his face as he looked into the camera. His eyes, as always, were direct and unwavering, staring into the camera--at me--with open honesty.

One picture was a little girl, maybe three or four years old, in what looked like an Easter dress, all white and pink and flouncy. She had tousled curly brown-blonde hair, a round angelic face, and a pink ribbon pinned to a curl near her ear. In her arms was a large, floppy pale pink stuffed rabbit that she clutched against her tummy.

One was a family picture. Dan sat next to a slender woman with dark hair pulled back from her oval face with a clip, and a laughing look in her gray eyes. Two younger people stood behind them, a young man and woman, each with the features of their parents.

"These people were all murdered, Mrs. Carlson," Tinsley said. "And you can help us find who did it."

Chapter 5

"Low blow," I muttered. "Way to put me on the spot."

Dan glared at me, his hand stilling on Grumble. "Not as low as killing three people."

I shot him a glare in return while Tinsley retrieved the photos and tucked them back in the envelope. He put another photo on the table. I took it warily. It was Michael, standing near a bright red sports car, another man facing him. Both men were partially turned away from the camera but I could see their faces clearly.

"I don't know how I could help," I said as I examined the picture. "I don't know anything about the fire. It's a coincidence that John was there."

Another photo was tossed on the table, then another. I picked them up. Michael was talking to the same man, a solid, short individual with sunglasses and a cigar, who was gesturing and appeared angry. "So? Michael is talking to someone. Big deal. It's two guys talking next to a..." I peered at the photo. "Okay, a really fancy sports car."

"A Porsche Boxster," Dan murmured. "Worth about sixty thousand."

"Talking to a guy next to a fancy, expensive sports car," I amended.

Tinsley once again leveled those laser-blue eyes at me. "It's a man who was a key member in the Wickeds."

"The who?" It sounded like a Broadway show or something.

"The Wickeds. It's a criminal gang. That man was the leader of their fraud division."

I slid the photos back on the table. "Their what? Fraud division? You make them sound like a bank or a credit card company."

"They're like a bank in many ways. They're well organized, efficient, and have their tentacles into every aspect of American life."

"That sounds like a bank." I saw his grim look and hurried on. "Why should I believe you? There's a picture of Michael talking to a guy. Big deal."

Tinsley handed me another piece of paper, this one a police picture of the man holding a number under his chin. I did a double-take. It wasn't the same guy. They were very similar but the one in the picture with Michael was younger. "Who's that?"

"That's the father of the man talking to Bennington. Samuel Nesbitt, the man with Bennington, ran the Wickeds while his father, Solomon, was in prison." Tinsley said grimly. "He was in prison because I put him there."

"Okay. I'm confused. If you have pictures of Michael talking to a mobster, why didn't you arrest the guy?"

"It's a complicated case." Tinsley sat back but didn't relax. I doubt if he knew how to relax. He probably slept at attention. I almost grinned at the thought but the frowny look on his face squashed any idea I had about levity. "We--the FBI--have been after Solomon Nesbitt for years but we didn't have enough evidence to take him to trial for racketeering."

"So why was he in prison?" I asked, tossing the mug shot back on the table.

"Tax evasion. That's the least of his crimes, but it's the only one we could get him on."

"Didn't Elliot Ness do that to Al Capone?"

"Nesbitt has a lot in common with Al Capone," Tinsley said. "Capone had syphilis and died in prison from that disease. Solomon Nesbitt has cancer and is dying, too. But he was released from prison six months ago."

"What about the other guy? The son, the guy talking to Michael?"

"He's dead. I killed him a year ago, in Kansas, during an investigation."

He said it as calmly as I would say
Time to feed Grumble now
. "You seem to tangle with this family a lot."

Tinsley's jaw tightened and he stared at the picture on the table. "I almost broke the Wickeds three years ago when I killed Solomon Nesbitt's second-in-command. And I busted Nesbitt's younger brother two years ago. They shared a few months of jail time before the brother was killed in a prison fight."

"Good heavens. The man must feel cursed. But what does this have to do with John and your wife, " I glanced at Dan, "or Michael?"

"The little girl who died in the fire was the child of a man who was set to testify against the Wickeds," Tinsley said. "The child was kidnapped and, we believe, put in that house as a warning to anyone about what would happen if they crossed the gang."

My stomach twisted. It was bad enough a child died, but to think that someone deliberately did it was monstrous. "Good Lord, what kind of people would do that?"

"Sociopaths," Tinsley snapped. "Nesbitt has been under attack from a rival gang for years. He managed to hold on to his position while he was in prison, but rival leaders are after him. Nesbitt means to keep his leadership of the Wickeds through any means necessary, even if it means murdering a child and setting a fire to kill others who might cross him." He stared at me, his cold blue eyes like chips of ice. "Don't underestimate how violent these people are. They'll do anything to solidify their hold on anyone in their grasp and they'll stop at nothing if they think they've been double-crossed in any way."

I glanced sidelong at Dan, who was focused on Grumble. "What about your wife? How does she fit into this?"

"We're not sure. It may have been because of her employer. Maybe she saw something she wasn't supposed to see." Dan glanced at Tinsley as though asking permission to speak and when the FBI guy said nothing, he continued. "Paul Denton was supposed to be on duty that night but your husband took his place."

"What's that mean?" I looked from Dan to Tinsley, who sat on the edge of the couch, his arms resting on his thighs and his hands on his knees as though he was ready to push off the couch and sprint away if needed. In contrast, Dan was pinned to his chair by Grumbles, who acted as though he had found his lifelong buddy.

"This is totally confidential, Mrs. Carlson," Tinsley warned. "Remember."

I waved a hand. "Of course. I signed a paper. I promised to forfeit life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness if I blab."

Tinsley started to snap a reply but Dan interrupted. "Denton got into financial trouble a few years ago. He went to a friend of his for help. That friend sent him to the Wickeds."

"Some friend." I scooted back in my chair and curled up on the cushion, perhaps subconsciously withdrawing from this conversation as well.

"Denton was raised in a bad neighborhood," Dan continued, ignoring my mutter. "A few of his friends were in the gang but he didn't know it. We think," here he glanced at Tinsley, who nodded almost imperceptibly, "we think Denton managed to pay back the loan but his family was threatened. We
think
he told your husband and Bennington about it."

I straightened. "When did this happen?"

"About three or four years ago."

I thought back, trying to recreate a time so far in the past. "Let's see. Roberta, Paul's wife, died about that time. It was around the same time that John's nephew died."

Tinsley flinched and his face paled. I belatedly remembered the circumstances of that death. John's nephew, Mark, had died at this man's hands. Oh, shit, way to insert my foot into my mouth. "I'm sorry," I blurted. "I didn't mean--"

His lips thinned. "You don't need to be sorry. It happened."

"Have you talked to Amy since then? Does she know you're involved in this investigation?"

"This has nothing to do with her," he said in a low, level voice.

"You know, it seems to me that everybody in this case has revenge on the mind. Are you avenging Amy's brother?" I didn't wait for an answer, but turned my attention to Dan, who tilted his head to regard me, his dark brown eyes faintly accusing. "And I suppose you'd like revenge for your wife."

"What about you?" Dan asked.

I wasn't sure so I tugged the conversation back to the topic at hand. "Let's see. Four years ago. I know Paul was under a lot of stress. His wife had cancer. His daughter was a teenager and I think Paul was studying for the captain's exam. John helped him with that. Paul would come over here and they went through the textbooks together. John was good at that kind of stuff."

"What kind of stuff?" Dan asked.

I glanced at him but he was focused on my adoring cat. Dan's lashes were dark on his cheeks, hiding his expressive brown eyes. "John was good at being a friend. I sometimes complained about it. He would drop everything to help somebody."

"That's not a bad quality."

I didn't argue. It would sound petty to complain about John's good points now.

"Did your husband loan Denton any money?" Tinsley asked.

I seized on the question eagerly, hopeful that I could put to rest any notion that John had benefited from the fire. "Not that I knew of. John and I had a joint bank account but we also had separate accounts. It's possible he loaned money from his private account, but when he died and I settled his estate, I didn't find anything that indicated he did."

"Did your aunt loan Denton any money?"

"My aunt?" I'm sure they heard the confusion in my voice. "Aunt Portia doesn't even know Paul Denton. Oh, she's probably met him. He and John were friends for years and maybe he went home with John for a visit back when they were in college together. But Aunt Portia doesn't know him well enough to loan him money." I frowned thoughtfully. "Of course, if John asked her to loan him money, she might have."

"Your husband had that much influence with your aunt?" Dan asked.

"She was John's aunt, too," I said.

"What?" Both Tinsley and Dan spoke simultaneously.

"That's how John and I met. We were at party for Uncle Leland for his birthday, out at the farm. Leland is--was--Portia's husband. My father was Portia's brother and John's mother was Leland's sister. John and Amy are related to Portia through Uncle Leland." I frowned at Tinsley. "Didn't Amy ever mention that? When you two came for a visit, it was for Uncle Leland's funeral. Surely you remember?"

To my surprise, Tinsley appeared flustered, his eyes darting anywhere but to me. "I must have forgotten. I don't recall meeting you or your husband."

"Hey, isn't this is a conflict of interest for you, too? I mean, you've met the people involved." I let the words die when I saw that the flinty look had returned to his blue eyes. "Maybe not," I concluded.

"Where did Denton get the money to repay a loan like that?" Tinsley stared at me as though I had the answers.

"Bennington," Dan said. "I've told you all along, it all comes back to Bennington."

I squirmed on my seat, trying to find a way to tell them what John had told me. Did Michael embezzle money in order to help Paul? I frowned. That didn't make sense. "I can't see Michael doing anything to help somebody unless it also benefits him. How would loaning money to Paul help him?" I decided to try a small lie. "Aunt Portia mentioned once that she talked to John on the day he died."